Touch
by magdalene 1024
Summary: Amon pondering the possibilities...rated M to be safe.


_Constructive criticism welcome, but flames will burn my face and cause me to don a mask and start an Equalist movement…._

"Touch"

He sat alone in his office, elbows resting on the armrests of his chair, fingers steepled together in contemplation. The room was dark, save for a few flickering candles casting wavering shadows over his mask. He gazed into the dancing flame of one taper, meditating deeply…on _her_.

The Avatar, of course. She was, he thought dryly, the only woman in his life—though not in the usual sense of the phrase. But in another lifetime…he knew, had Firebenders not destroyed his family, destroyed his _face—_that he, too, would be one of the many casting an admiring glance her way—

-No. Scratch that. Amon was nothing if not honest with himself. Behind his mask, he _did _stare at her with longing—not that she could see it, which was all for the good. She was, after all, an enemy to be vanquished, the very epitome of the overbearing power of Benders everywhere. But only a fool would deny that the Avatar was a very attractive young woman. And only a bigger fool would deny an attraction to such a woman.

Amon was not a fool. But the fire that had burned his face had also forged his purpose into steel-hard discipline, tempered with self-knowledge. To deny attraction would only turn it to obsession and madness. To act on it would be a mockery and a defeat of his entire purpose.

Best to steer a middle course—acknowledge his desires, analyze them, then put them to bed—pun intended, as he chuckled humorlessly to himself.

He hadn't been with a woman in a very long time, which was undoubtedly the mainspring of his lustful thoughts. Before the Firebenders, he'd been considered fairly handsome, with a strong share of charisma for good measure. He'd enjoyed quite a bit of intimacy with women in those days—taking it all for granted, thinking his life would always be one woman after the next.

And then his face had been scarred, horribly scarred. And the women who had once gazed at him with naked longing now flinched when they saw the wreck of his face, and looked on him with pity—if they could even bear to look at him at all.

He had had no idea what it would be like—to always feel the fiery heat in the palm of his hands, burning with such need to touch skin…to never feel the soft firmness of a woman's body…to never stroke at that sacred dampness…to never feel a woman's hot breath in his ear as she….

The Avatar was a woman, and like all women, she would undoubtedly flinch were she to see his face. But…he could not see her giving him pity, or looking away. As she did now, even when frightened of him, she would continue to stare him full in the face. It was an admirable quality; he had to give credit where credit was due. To do otherwise would be to underestimate his adversary.

And yet…there were times, when the scars still hurt so badly, that he wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees before her, and beg her to use the healing powers Waterbenders were reputed to have, to lay her hands on his face and erase his scars, lay her hands on his breast and ease the hard pain in his heart….and to lay her hands on him, even lower, between his legs, and release his swollen, throbbing need. Were he to ask, were she to grant, Amon knew all too well he would be at her feet, willingly, slavishly worshiping her as a goddess….

He closed his eyes, his mind turning inward…and saw, with perfect clarity, himself, whole and hale again, naked, on his back, in an open field. He could feel spring grass, crisp and cool and slightly scratchy against his skin; he could feel the breeze lift his dark curls, kiss and caress his face, cooling it, washing away the constant burning trapped in the scar tissue…

…and there she was-the Avatar, straddling him—it would be easier for her, he was certain she was a virgin…he held his shaft firmly in one hand, and her hip in his other, guiding them into position…letting her lower herself onto him, slowly, at her own pace. His hand slid to her other hip, pulling her all the way down as his hips shifted upwards, stretching her and filling her…

…then a quick, dedicated thrust upwards, and her breath caught sharply as her head fell back, arching her breasts high and forward. His own breath caught softly as he raised his hands, fingers butterflying along the well-defined muscles running on either side of her stomach. Her very skin fluttered its response to his touch, as one hand drifted further up, lightly fondling one full breast. His eyes marveled at the contrast of his fair hand against her deeply tanned skin, then slowly, dreamlike, one long finger began a slow circle of her nipple, while his buttocks clenched and released under her, keeping a slow, pulsing pace inside her. He pulled his fingers back to his mouth for a brief instant—oh spirits, he could feel his own lips again, tingling with blood—then sucked on them for a moment, dampening the tips, then putting his fingers back to her nipple, watching in unabashed fascination as the wind hit the moistened skin, causing the nub to harden and pebble under his watchful eyes…

…he pulled himself upwards a little, resting his weight on his forearms, drawing his knees up slightly and pumped his hips up even harder. She gave a strangled cry, falling forward a little, her hands slamming onto his shoulders, branding him with her heat, fingers biting into his muscles as she plunged her own hips down against his, their wet thighs rubbing, their soaked nethers pounding, making a steady _slip-slap-slip-slap—_

_-_a moan-scream broke from her as he hit _the_ spot, her crystal blue gaze locked on his golden-brown eyes staring into his soul—

-he sat all the way up, one hand behind him for support, the other wrapping around her, pulling her closer in, drawing up his knees further, surrounding her completely with all he had of himself, foreheads just barely brushing against each other….

"Touch me," he brokenly whispered, his breath mingling with hers. "Kiss me…"

She knew what he meant—she was his Avatar, she understood him—he didn't mean just the coupling, but the most precious touch…the one he ached for most….

…her fingers lightly danced up to his face, slowly, teasingly, tracing his cheekbones, leaving little trails of fire—not the kind that had burned and ruined him, but the sweet heat that broke him into a sweat, leaving him cool and bereft in its wake, and oh spirits he could _feel_ it, every bit of pressure her fingers left, pressed into his skin, her finger slowly sliding over his blood-engorged lips that fell open to her, inviting her…and then, her soft, warm mouth, moist against his, the caress light and grazing and teasing…and he was hyper-sensitive, could feel the tingling in his lips as they brushed hers, and oh spirits, he had missed this precious gift, he had never realized, never _appreciated_, what he meant to be touched like _this, _not until it had been ripped away from him—

-and then he ripped himself away from it, with great strength of will, finding himself back in the reality, in his candle-lit office, in his chair, the porcelain mask firmly in place over his features. He sat still in his chair, chest heaving a bit, focusing his willpower on conquering his bodily reactions to the might-have-been images. More than fantasy, he knew, for the spirits had shown him many possible paths he might have taken. That one had been just one of the many he might have chosen….

… and had he done so, he would be denying the harm done to him and his family, the harm done to all nonbenders at the hands of benders, insulting the memory of the dead. He knew his purpose, he would not waver. He visited these other possibilities to strengthen his resolve, to remind himself to not cave to weakness and selfishness in hopes for an easier, more comfortable existence for himself.

His eyes focused on the meditative candle before him, with its small, careful flame, illuminating in its own purpose. Fire had its uses, but if it was left unchecked, if one were careless….well, he knew better than anybody what could happen if one viewed fire as a plaything, didn't he?

But he had a plan, and he knew how to control fire now…

…his fingers moved smoothly forward and snuffed out the flame.


End file.
